


Care

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire have a fight that ends with Grantaire storming out of the house. Eventually, Enjolras chases after him to apologize and finds his beloved R being brutally attacked.</p><p> (Kink meme fill)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for description of rape, physical violence, some pretty nasty arguing between romantic partners, and self-victim-blaming.

“Why are we even together, if you don’t care enough to show up?” Grantaire shouts.

“I love you! I’m sorry that isn’t enough for you.”

“What, so you think I don’t deserve anything more than words? You’re just going to keep making empty promises and then showing that what you really think of me is- is nothing. As in you literally don’t think of me, at all, ever, because you don’t care.”

“I forgot! Am I never allowed to make a mistake? You think I’m so perfect, well, I’m not. I’m a human being, like you, not a god.”

“I know that,” Grantaire says, his voice quiet.

“Do you? Do you even see me for who I am?”

“Of course. I know you make mistakes, I just- so, what, I’m never allowed to criticize you? I’m not allowed to be unhappy even when you stand me up and leave me sitting there for thirty fucking minutes, everyone looking at me with so much pity because they can all see, they all know- and why not? You certainly never hesitate to tell me when you’re not happy with me. Maybe you’re the one who thinks you’re too perfect for me.”

“Stop it, Grantaire, I’m sick of your fucking self-esteem issues getting in the way- I can’t even say anything to you-“

“Oh, goodness,” Grantaire says, his voice going high and mocking, “I’m so sorry. I forgot, I’m not allowed to feel sad, because you don’t have time to deal with it. Because it gets in the way of your precious cause and we can’t have that, can we, because I’m only good enough for you to spend time with when I’m making you laugh or getting you off. Can’t have me slipping up and thinking that just because I’m your boyfriend that means anything at all to you, we can’t have me thinking that I’m anything more to you than fucking stress relief-“

“Maybe we wouldn’t have this conversation if you made effort to be involved in more of my life than just goofing off or having sex,” Enjolras responds, his jaw setting in the way he only does when he’s really angry, and he’s beautiful like this, he’s beautiful in his rage and it turns Grantaire’s stomach sometimes, how much he loves this man even when it hurts.

“So this is about the cause again.”

“Yes, I was working. That’s why tonight slipped my mind. Is that so terrible?”

“You do realize you haven’t apologized?” Grantaire says, and fuck, fuck, he’s going to cry. He channels the hurt into angry words because he doesn’t want comfort, he especially doesn’t want Enjolras’ fucking pity right now. “I sat there at the restaurant where I made reservations for our first Valentine’s Day as a couple, all by myself. I sat there while people looked at me with this horrible, awful pity, like, oh, of course this ugly guy got stood up, poor thing though, and I kept thinking you were going to be late, because you always are, that you were going to show up and they were going to see how beautiful you are and that’d show them, I might not deserve it but I somehow wound up with you-“

“I see we’re back to the way I look,” Enjolras says, his voice tight.

“Fuck, what, you don’t want me to say it? Fine, I won’t. I won’t point out the obvious fact that you’re the most beautiful man I have ever seen and I’m hideous—“

“Is that all you care about? Am I just some trophy you can show off to strangers-“

“Don’t you dare, you know that isn’t true-“

“You’re supposed to be the one person who really sees me, the one person for whom I can really be a person and not a fucking figurehead of the revolution-“

“Of course you would use the word whom in an argument, you pretentious dickhead,” Grantaire murmurs, and there’s a moment where it could have all been okay. Enjolras might have pointed out that Grantaire would do the exact same thing, actually, and Grantaire might laugh, and they might be all right.

Instead, Enjolras says, “But I guess you’re useless at that, too,” and Grantaire’s face goes from expressive with anger to closed-off and cold.

“Just like everything else, huh?”

“I’m- I mean-“ Enjolras tries to fumble for the right words, but there are none.

“Funny. I used to think the only good thing about me was how much I love you. But I guess even that isn’t fucking good enough for you.”

“You’re not useless, I-“

“You should really make up your mind. Am I a pathetic loser who should just stop wallowing in his depression because my self-esteem issues are a waste of your time, or am I a useless waste of space who shouldn’t bother criticizing you because I’m not good enough to clean your boots and we both know it?”

“I don’t believe either of those things-“

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras spits automatically.

Grantaire bows low at the waist, sweeping his arm out in a dramatic flourish. “Forgive me, oh-“

“Stop it! Can’t you be serious for a second?”

“I am constitutionally incapable of that.”

“As you apparently are of getting along with me.”

“So, what? You think we should- do you not think this is worth it?” Grantaire says, trying not to let the terror creep into his voice. 

“That’s not what I said!”

“But it’s what you implied. Hell, it’s what you implied when you didn’t show up earlier.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I love you before you believe me?”

“You’re a man of action, Enjolras. Why don’t you try demonstrating instead of saying?”

“Because you keep tying things up in knots! I can never win with you?”

“Why do you feel like you have to?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras just looks at him, maybe for the first time all night, looks at him and sees the hurt and sadness on his lover’s face. He reaches out a hand.

“Grantaire, I-“

Grantaire storms past him. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

“I’m sorry,” he offers, weakly. 

“You know, if you’d just said that when I first got back, it would have been fine. That’s all I wanted. Because I don’t think you’re perfect. I just wanted you to admit that. Admit that you fucked up and that you- that you care that it hurt me. But I guess you don’t.”

“Grantaire-“

Grantaire brushes past him and out into the cold night air. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Enjolras paces back and forth in the apartment.

Grantaire knows how much his drinking bothers Enjolras. He’s practically quit—there’s no reason he would be doing it now, except to deliberately mess with Enjolras.

It is so fucking hard to love someone who feels like he doesn’t deserve it.

Enjolras adores Grantaire. Would do anything for Grantaire. But the fact is that Grantaire won’t let him. Whenever they get in even the tiniest disagreement, Grantaire does just this—viciously goads him into saying something horrible. Grantaire takes every single unkind word or thoughtless act Enjolras commits as evidence that Enjolras secretly despises him.

Sometimes Enjolras can’t help but think that if Grantaire cared half as much as he claims to, he wouldn’t suspect Enjolras of such utter cruelty. 

And now he’s run off again, like the coward he is—or pretends to be.

The worst part is probably the knowing that Grantaire is so much more than he acts like. If he’d just have a little bit of confidence in himself, he’d be so much happier, and everything would be so much easier for both of them, and then Enjolras would have been able to get his work done in peace.

Enjolras sighs at the empty room and goes back to work. There’s nothing for it. Grantaire will go out and drink, probably more than he should. He’ll stay out late just to make Enjolras worry, and then he’ll stumble in half-conscious and Enjolras will have to fuss over him and put him to bed. In the morning when he wakes up he’ll be half-thinking that Enjolras doesn’t care for him anymore, and he’ll probably be tense and angry, and—

Enjolras just wishes he could make things better. 

He shakes his head angrily, trying to clear his mind. He works intently for about an hour—or at least stares intently at the paper. But he can’t stop thinking about Grantaire, can’t get the image of his lover’s angrily set jaw and tear-bright eyes out of his head.

He loves Grantaire. He really does. The man is infuriating and insecure, but his devotion to Enjolras, excessive though it sometimes seems, is also—incredible. Endlessly good not just to Enjolras but to their friends. He’s funny and creative and attractive—not apparently by normal standards, but Enjolras has never cared about that, and he’s never wanted anyone the way he wants Grantaire.

He’s got to stop thinking about this. He’s got work to do.

He sets back down at his essay, but there’s a sinking feeling in his gut as he does.

It really wasn’t right of him to forget. It’s Valentine’s Day. 

And he was deliberately misinterpreting Grantaire, he knows how awful it must have been for Grantaire to sit there waiting for him all that time. It has nothing to do with objectifying Enjolras—it’s just the feeling of being rejected. And maybe Grantaire didn’t phrase everything perfectly, but then again neither did Enjolras. 

His own words- ‘but I guess you’re useless at that, too’- come back to him, hitting him like a blow, and he flinches at the thought.

No wonder Grantaire thinks so little of himself. No wonder his self-esteem is so low. No wonder he’s stormed out to go find something to wash away the pain.

When the person he loves is someone as cruel and thoughtless as Enjolras. When he’s put all the faith he has in a man who routinely forgets about him—this is hardly the first time Enjolras has stood him up, and it’s certainly not the first fight they’ve had.

But they usually don’t get this nasty. Enjolras hasn’t let cruel words like that escape him since they first got together, and now he’s really feeling the regret that always accompanied that cruelty, along with the pain he always feels when Grantaire is hurting.

And this time it’s his fault.

Well, there’s nothing else for it. He’ll have to go find Grantaire and apologize to him and bring him home.

Enjolras shrugs on his favorite bright red peacoat and heads out into the night after his beloved.

It’s raining, hard, and the thought of Grantaire out alone, slumped under some awning drinking in the cold makes Enjolras’ stomach turn. 

It’s eleven-thirty. Still, technically, their first Valentine’s Day as a couple. If he’d just bothered to show up, like he should have, they could be in their warm, soft bed making love right now, or cuddled together in the aftermath. He could be kissing Grantaire’s sweet skin and telling him how beautiful, how loved, how cherished he is. 

Instead Grantaire is drunk and alone and probably miserable, and it’s all Enjolras’ fault, because he never thinks, he just speaks. He just says things, things he shouldn’t, and one day Grantaire is--

His downward spiral towards self-pity is interrupted by the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a scream, down an alley off to the side. It’s on Enjolras’ route, towards Grantaire’s favorite bar, and he heads towards the sound, going to see what’s the matter. 

Grantaire will understand, he tells himself, though there’s a voice in the back of his mind questioning if he should really be putting Grantaire second again.. but this is important. There’s somebody possibly in danger at this moment, and Grantaire would never ask to be put before that.

Enjolras turns the corner to the alleyway where he can hear the fight.

The first thing he sees is four men’s backs. The figures are crouched low to the ground, shoulder to shoulder.

They’re blocking his view of whatever is going on, but it’s obvious what’s happening. 

He can just barely see the tops of the heads of two other men, mostly blocked out by the backs of the four facing away from him, but he knows. He can see enough. 

One of the men has dark, curly hair, and the man behind him grabs his curls, pushing his head down toward the cold, damp pavement so he’s out of Enjolras’ view.

There’s another quiet sound of pain, and one of the crouching men says “I said shut up!” 

There’s the sound of a kick, and a groan, and another, and then silence—silence, except for the sounds of fucking, brutal hard thrusts and a body, almost limp with suffering, being shoved into the pavement, and then moans and laughter coming from the rapists and Enjolras’ stomach turns and he walks away. 

He starts towards home. He’s a good fighter, but he’s no match for at least five big, brawling types. He’s also very aware of his own looks. He could easily be victimized himself, and he’ll be no help to anyone in that case.

He’ll call the police, and they’ll come break up the attack, and he can go look for Grantaire. 

And then the victim makes another noise—but not noise this time, words, and it’s quiet but Enjolras distinctly hears “Please, no—“ being cut off by choking as the man’s head is forced down, presumably onto a penis from the sound he makes as he gags, and Enjolras knows that voice. Would know that voice anywhere.

That’s his Grantaire. 

Enjolras’ mind goes still and blank for a second, and then he acts. His mind is not involved in this action. He doesn’t need to—can’t—think. 

He walks up to the men. He keeps a knife in his pocket, because he’s an exceptionally pretty man and he’s been the target of more than one attempted assault or homophobic crime in his life, and because his radical, street-brawling days will never fully leave him. He won’t use it if he can possibly help it, because he does want to be elected one day, but he’d do anything to stop these men from hurting his Grantaire. If it comes down to it, he’ll gladly make use of his knife to spare Grantaire any further hurt. 

He mentally takes note of each of their appearances, then chooses a target. The man off to the right, one of the four guards. This one has clearly already had his turn on Grantaire—he looks disheveled and exhausted—and it will be both easy and pleasant to hurt him. 

He attacks that first man in silence, grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving him to the ground. He delivers a brutal kick to his kidneys, stomping downwards and grinding his foot in, and there’s a sharp cry of pain before Enjolras turns to the next one. 

They’ve noticed him now. There are five of them, the remaining three of the guards and the two men who are holding Grantaire down and assaulting him, and Enjolras smiles a cold, cold smile.

They’re far outmatched. He’s a strong—frighteningly strong—fighter anyway, but in this circumstance—when they’re hurting Grantaire, when they’re hurting Grantaire and it’s Enjolras’ fault that they’ve had the chance to get their filthy hands on him—of course Enjolras will have no trouble at all making sure they don’t continue. 

Two of the remaining watchers converge on Enjolras and he pushes them both away. Before they have time to recover, he spins, taking one down to the ground with a well-placed elbow to the center of the chest and then leaning towards the other man. He reaches towards him and the man flinches away, expecting a kick to the groin. Instead, Enjolras grabs him around the neck, throwing him over his hip and to the ground. 

“Have you touched him?” he asks the last man, who is still watching, stunned.

He shakes his head. 

“Why not?”

“I was supposed to go next.”

Enjolras sneers. “Then you still have time to run for your pathetic life.”

He does so, and Enjolras turns to deal with the two who have spent the minute or so the fight took getting disentangled from Grantaire’s prone and brutalized body, trying to get their trousers back on. As they go to stand, Enjolras makes a decision, withdrawing his knife. For these two, there will be no mercy at all.

The first man, the one who was forcing his way into Grantaire’s mouth, holds up his hands. “Please,” he says, and Enjolras lunges forward, infuriated by the fact that he would dare, that he would think he has any right to ask for the mercy that Grantaire was denied.

Grantaire whimpers something, and suddenly all Enjolras’ attention is on him. They don’t matter, nothing matters, only his Grantaire. He keeps the knife extended at the strangers as he asks, “Love, what is it?”

“Don’t. Not worth it.”

“All right,” Enjolras says softly. “If that’s what you want.” He lowers his knife, and the last two men run away. The three Enjolras has beaten are still on the ground, but they don’t seem likely to get up and about anytime soon, and he leaves them there, going to kneel down by Grantaire. 

“Grantaire, I don’t want to rush you, but when you’re feeling well enough, we should go ahead and get out of here,” Enjolras murmurs gently. 

Grantaire nods slightly. “I’m sorry. It’ll take me a minute. But I’ll go soon. I think they’re gone, you don’t have to wait around—“

Enjolras blinks, confused. He’s not sure what Grantaire means—“Do you want to be alone? I can give you some space as soon as we get back to the apartment.”

“I- I can come back with you?”

He must be a little confused because of the trauma he’s been through. Enjolras will have to be very careful. “Of course. We can go back to our apartment, or we can go to the hospital if you’d rather.”

“I can come home?” Grantaire’s voice sounds shattered, rough because of the way his throat’s been abused and weak from pain and exhaustion, and it’s that note of hope on the word home that breaks Enjolras’ heart. He’s not sure why his love might be saying such a thing, except that Grantaire must have thought his ordeal would never end. 

“Of course you can. Do you want to try and stand up?”

“Okay.”

“May I touch you?”

Grantaire hesitates, then nods. Enjolras turns to face him, stretching out his arms and pulling Grantaire in towards his chest. From there, they work their way up to their feet. Enjolras has to support most of Grantaire’s weight, but it’s all right. At least he’s not flinching away from Enjolras the way Enjolras dreaded he might, after what he’s been through. 

“Here. Ready to start walking towards home?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire whispers.

“Let me just—“ 

Grantaire’s pants are in tatters, having been cut off him with something—a knife, presumably. Enjolras takes off his peacoat, which is long enough on Grantaire that it covers him up. 

“You don’t have to—I don’t want you to be cold—“ Grantaire says.

“It’s like a block and a half, love. I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“Grantaire, I’m not going to let you walk home naked in the cold. Take the fucking coat, all right?”

“All right,” Grantaire agrees, letting Enjolras drape it around his shoulders and button him into it. “Whatever you want.”

That answer, and the blankness in Grantaire’s voice, disturbs Enjolras. He resolves to leave it til they get home, though. Grantaire leans heavily on him the whole way there. 

Enjolras unlocks the door and lets his love in. In the bright light of their apartment, Enjolras gets his first view of the real extent of Grantaire’s injuries. It’s brutal. 

His wrists are bruised from being held down. His knees are torn up from the ground. His whole chest, as he takes off Enjolras’ coat, is red from kicks and punches, and Enjolras can see the imprint of a dirty boot still on Grantaire’s back. His face has a brand-new bruise spreading along the whole left side, and there are scuff marks from the concrete on his cheek. Someone ground his face into the filthy sidewalk while they were raping him. 

Enjolras covers his eyes in instinctive horror and Grantaire freezes up. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is so small and broken. “I- I want- can I go take a shower? Please?”

“Of course,” Enjolras answers. “I’ll make us both a cup of tea, okay? You must be freezing.”

It’s a sick parody of a normal night in, but it’s all Enjolras can do. He’ll never be able to make up for what he’s done, he’ll never be able to make this all right, but he can try his best to take care of Grantaire now. 

The tea is cooling on the living room table when Enjolras hears a wrenching sob from the direction of the bathroom.

He’s running before he thinks better of it, opening the door to find Grantaire standing under the spray, naked and shaking.

“R? What’s wrong?” Enjolras asks, before internally kicking himself. That’s a stupid question. Enjolras—his boyfriend, his lover, the man who is supposed to care for him and protect him and love him—stood him up on their first Valentine’s Day, yelled at him and called him useless, and then let him run out into the rain where he was brutally gang-raped. That’s what’s wrong.

Grantaire is shaking so hard that it looks like he’s going to fall over, and before Enjolras can think he’s stepping into the shower, fully clothed, and taking the soap out of the death grip Grantaire has on it. He stands there under the steaming water, looking at Grantaire, though his love won’t meet his eyes.

“Can I turn the water off?” Enjolras asks softly.

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m- I’m dirty. I can’t get clean. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Then he blinks. “Ange, your clothes are getting all wet.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Please. Just tell me what I can do.”

“W-will you go get me some pants to put on? Please?”

“Of course.”

Enjolras strips off his own now-sodden clothes on his way out of the bathroom, then grabs them each a pair of soft sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He meets Grantaire just as the other man is getting out of the shower and offers him a towel.

Grantaire takes it, still not looking at Enjolras, still not speaking to Enjolras as he dries off and gets dressed. 

Of course, Enjolras wouldn’t want to look at himself, and what is there to say? Grantaire probably doesn’t have the energy to shout and swear at him after all he’s been through, and it’s not like Enjolras deserves anything else. 

“Come sit on the couch with me, love?” Enjolras asks quietly. “I’d like to talk, if you don’t mind.”

Grantaire flinches at his words. “Okay,” he says. 

He takes the cup of tea Enjolras offers him, looking down into it helplessly.

“You should drink,” Enjolras says. “You must be frozen.”

Obediently, Grantaire takes a sip, then sets it down as his hands start to tremble. 

“Can you talk? You don’t have to. No pressure, I promise. Just- if there’s anything you can tell me, anything I can do-“

Grantaire lets out a sob and starts to shake again. He says nothing, still. Nothing.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Enjolras blurts, regretting it immediately. How fucking stupid. Of course that’s not all right. Grantaire’s just been beaten and raped, touching him won’t be comforting, it’ll be-

Grantaire looks over at him, freezing up completely for a second. Then, all at once, he’s launching himself at Enjolras, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ waist and burying his face in Enjolras chest as he sobs.

Enjolras hesitantly cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, draping one arm along his back, careful to avoid anywhere that might be bruised. He’s just so grateful that he can do something, that he can hold Grantaire, be here for him in this one small way.

Grantaire all but crawls into Enjolras’ lap, arms around his neck, face still hidden in his shirt, and Enjolras just holds him while he can. Their relationship may be over soon. This may be the last time Enjolras ever gets to embrace him. It may be the last time he ever feels the warmth of Grantaire in his arms. He needs to express all the love he can through this, for as long as it lasts. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire whispers into Enjolras’ shirt, still hiding his face.

“Why are you apologizing, darling?”

“I’m sorry you have to touch me,” Grantaire says softly. “I—I want you to know—I am grateful. That you’re being so kind. I promise, soon, I’ll…”

Enjolras can’t follow his logic. “You’ll what? Can you look at me? Please?”

Grantaire pulls back a little, lifting his head, but doesn’t meet Enjolras’ worried eyes. “I’ll be out of your hair.”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire laughs, harsh and bitter. “You can’t want me just hanging around forever after all that. It’s really sweet of you to let me stay for tonight, and I’ll be gone as soon as- as soon as- well. Just tell me when you can’t stand the sight of me anymore.”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says, shocked.

Grantaire’s face crumples. He starts to stand up, but he evidently doesn’t have the strength, and Enjolras isn’t inclined to let him go. 

“R, you think—you think I want you to leave?”

“You don’t?”

“Why would—I never want to let you leave my sight again! I do understand that’s impractical, but, god, if I could, I’d never let you out of my arms for the rest of our lives.”

“I don’t understand,” Grantaire says, his voice small.

“Sweetheart, tell me—tell me what you think is going on here.”

Grantaire hesitates, then says, in a calm monotone, “We fought. I went out and got drunk, like the coward I am, because it’s the only way I know to deal with my problems. You came looking for me because you’re a better boyfriend than I’ll ever deserve and found out that I’d got myself into trouble I couldn’t get out of because I was drunk. You brought me home and cleaned me up because you’re you, because you’re the best fucking person I know, and because of that you’re letting me cuddle up on ou- your couch, and get my- my dirtiness all over you, because you feel sorry for me even though it was all my fault.”

“And—“ Enjolras can barely speak, he’s so stunned and hurt. “What do you think is going to happen?”

“You’ll probably let me sleep on your couch because you’re a fucking saint or whatever. Maybe give me a cup of coffee and some time to get my things in the morning, once you see that I’m not really physically injured. I’ll probably go to Joly’s while I find a place of my own, lord knows Bossuet’s given him enough experience with couch crashers, and then you’ll never have to hear from me again—“

Enjolras can’t listen to this anymore. “Of course you’re injured, R, someone ground a boot into your face!”

Grantaire looks away. Like it doesn’t matter.

“Will you come back here, Grantaire? Let me hold you? Please?”

Grantaire looks at him warily, like he’s not sure what kind of trick Enjolras is playing, but slowly settles onto the couch next to him, letting Enjolras wrap an arm around his shoulders. 

“You think I want to end things with you?” Enjolras asks, trying not to let the hurt creep into his voice.

“I think things are already over. You made it pretty clear earlier tonight, y’know, when you said I’m useless. Don’t look all guilty at me, ange. You were right. I am.”

Enjolras is honestly going to cry in a minute. “Please don’t say that, Grantaire. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for every word of those things I said. “

“So you weren’t- you don’t want to break up with me?” Grantaire says, tentatively. “You- you’ll give me another chance?”

“You don’t need a second chance. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I mean, to make up for-“

“For what?”

Grantaire gestures vaguely, but Enjolras isn’t stupid, for all that this conversation is a bit difficult for him to understand, it seems to make so little sense.

“You—Grantaire, you don’t think—you don’t blame yourself for what happened to you tonight, do you?”

Grantaire’s shrug is all the answer he needs. 

Enjolras pulls away from Grantaire, not missing the way the other man tenses up at that, and slides off the couch to kneel in front of Grantaire. He wants his lover to be able to see the honesty on his face. 

“Look at me?” Enjolras asks, taking Grantaire’s hands in his own. “Please?”

Grantaire does as he’s asked. His face is wary, but his eyes drink in Enjolras as hungrily as ever.

“My beloved,” he says quietly. “You’ve done nothing wrong. No, no, don’t look away. Please. I need you to listen to me. What happened to you was not your fault. I cannot stop you from blaming yourself. I understand, even, if that is a part of what you need to do now to deal with this terrible thing that was done to you. But I can’t let you go on thinking that I blame you, that I—“

“You aren’t mad?” Grantaire says quietly.

“I’m angry at the monsters that assaulted you, and at myself for treating you so cruelly—for the things I said tonight, and for the fact that I have evidently been such a terrible partner to you that you think I would blame you for having been raped. But I am not angry with you, my love. Of course not.”

“But I—“

“What?”

“Other people—touched me. Fucked me. It’s not- I’m supposed to- only with you-“

“Love, that’s not your-“

“If I hadn’t been drunk, I could’ve stopped them.”

Enjolras sighs, going to sit beside Grantaire again. “There were six of them and one of you. I don’t think there’s anything you could’ve done.”

“You stopped them.”

“Well, they were distracted and worn out, and I was—I don’t know what happened, exactly. But whatever came over me—I just needed to protect you. Save you. Nothing else mattered. And being drunk—that doesn’t change the fact that you were assaulted. You didn’t ask for what happened to you.”

“You believe me?” Grantaire asks tentatively. “That I didn’t want it?”

“Yes,” Enjolras promises, gently kissing his lover’s forehead. 

“And…”

“What? Talk to me,” Enjolras urges.

“You aren’t—I mean—you don’t want us to—“ Grantaire’s face is blank, but he’s stammering desperately, and his hands have started shaking again. “You don’t want to break up with me?”

“Oh, R. My love. Have you been thinking that all this time?”

“Since you saw,” Grantaire whispers, looking away. “I figured—if I lived through what they were going to do to me, maybe you would forgive me one day, but then you were there, you were watching, and I could tell how angry you were, and it felt like that was at me, that you wanted to—that you were mad at me. I assumed… and because we fought earlier, and—“

“I want to be with you every day for the rest of my life,” Enjolras assures him gently. “I want to make this right. I never want us to break up, and I would certainly never break up with you because you were victimized in this awful way. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Grantaire manages to say, as Enjolras pulls him back into his arms. 

Enjolras holds him close for a long time. Eventually, he starts talking, still snuggling Grantaire in his arms. “Do you want to go to the police?”

“W-will you be disappointed in me if I don’t?” 

“Why- how could you think that?”

“I just- I know most rapists are multiple offenders, I know that by letting them go they’re probably- they might do this to someone else, and I know that if the fact that you beat them up ever comes up you could lose your career and I know that you think reporting is important for political reasons and-“

“R. The most important thing to me - the only important thing right now- is making sure you feel safe. If seeing them behind bars would make you feel safe, I want to make sure that happens. If I have to track them down and kill them in the dead of night for you to feel safe, I’ll do it. I don’t care.”

“I don’t want that. I don’t want to- I mean, I don’t think they’ll- I didn’t even know who they were. Just a bunch of guys at the bar. One of them tried to chat me up, and I shot him down- I promise, Enjolras, I didn’t even hesitate for a second, I was so clear about it-“

“Hey, hey,” Enjolras interrupts. “Grantaire, please, don’t. Don’t think you need to justify anything to me. I’m not going to- fuck, I don’t know, suddenly decide I think it’s your fault if you describe something wrong. I don’t blame you for what happened. Please have enough faith in me to believe that.”

“I do. Sorry. It’s just- it’s hard. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel bad, or like you’re not doing enough. You’re totally doing enough, you’re amazing. I don’t want you to feel bad.”

“You said that already, love,” Enjolras points out gently. “Listen. I’m sorry I said that. You don’t need to worry about me right now. I just want to make sure you know that you are- that you’re my first priority right now. The reason I’m asking you to tell me what happened isn’t- I’m not like, looking to judge this story and see if you did enough. That would be- that would be awful. I just- i want you to tell me so I can know what to do to help you. That’s all. That’s the only thing that matters.”

“So I met the guy at the bar. He bought me a drink, we went shot for shot for a bit, I told him I’d fought with my boyfriend, did that thing I do where I drunkenly talk about how wonderful you are. He didn’t drug my drink, I don’t think, but he kept giving me more to drink, kept listening to me talk, and- the more I said, the shittier I felt about our fight, the more I drank. Then I tried to make it home, I swear, I was coming back, and then I realized he was following me. I turned around to try and fight him, but I was so drunk, and there were so many of them. They had me on the ground in a second and they were all laughing- it was a game to them. I think they were going to see how long they could keep it up. How many times each of them could… Like a contest.”

“Oh, R.”

“I was- the worst wasn’t that. It was thinking that I was going to get back here and we were going to be over. That you weren’t going to- that you’d be mad at me, for drinking by myself, for being stupid enough to wander down that part of town by myself in the middle of the night. That you’d make me pack up my things and go and that I’d lose you.”

“That was worse than-“

“Than anything.”

Enjolras carefully, deliberately pushes away the part of his mind that wants to say something about how unhealthy that is, about how Grantaire needs not to depend on him so much, about how much work they have to do if he’d assume Enjolras would leave him over this. Those are all conversations for another day. Instead, he just gently says, “I’m not going anywhere, Grantaire. I love you. I’m here.”

“Can I ask a question, love?” Enjolras asks, when Grantaire’s sobs have quieted down a little bit.

“Anything.”

“I’m wondering- I know you assumed that I was going to- that I wasn’t going to want to be with you any more after what happened. And I know that’s at least partly because of the trauma you’ve been through, but I’m wondering—is that—have I really treated you that badly? That you think—you think that of me, that I would find you beaten and- and attacked and violated and think- think that I would leave you because of it?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire assures him at once. “Enjolras, I just wasn’t thinking clearly. My mind was- totally swimming, and I was- I don’t know. I was despairing. My worst fear is losing you, you know that. When I get drunk, when I get maudlin like that, I always worry that you’re going to- you’re going to lose interest in me, that you’re- that you’re going to realize that I’m not good enough for you and leave me.”

“That’s not going to happen. I promise you.” Enjolras gently kisses Grantaire’s temple. “I know I’ve really let you down today. I know that I didn’t show you the love I feel for you, and it breaks my heart that I let this happen. That I let you feel like that. But I hope that now- now that the whole awful thing is over, now that you’re here with me, safe and sound, you know that I’m just as afraid of losing you as you are of losing me.”

“Impossible,” Grantaire mumbles.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand in his, raising it to his lips as he carefully, deliberately kisses every one of Grantaire’s knuckles, ignoring the vicious scrapes on his palm, just inches away from the worshipful touch of his lips. “I love you. Believe that. Believe me.”

“I do. I love you. I trust you.”

“We’re going to get through this. And I promise, I swear to you, I will be better. I will become the man you want me to be, Grantaire. The man you deserve.”

“I don’t want anyone but you. Anything but who you are.”

“But you deserve a better lover. A kinder lover. Someone who puts you first, the way you put me first. And I promise, you are first in my heart. Always. Sometimes my head gets in the way of that, and I’m going to get better at that. I’m going to make sure that we both remember, every day, that you’re my heart. I’m going to make it impossible for you to ever doubt again. I can’t protect you from everything, but I can make it so you feel safe in my love.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, his voice choked. 

“It’s not going to be overnight. I’ll probably fuck up again, though God willing never badly enough that you walk out the door angry at me. And certainly never that you- that you-“

“You don’t think this is your fault?” Grantaire realizes suddenly.

“I don’t think it’s completely my fault, no. The fault lies with the assailants. But you can’t deny that if it weren’t for my selfishness or my cruel words, this never would have happened to you.”

“Yeah, and if I hadn’t gotten drunk, this wouldn’t have happened. You standing me up wasn’t great behavior. Neither was me getting wasted even though I’m a fucking recovering alcoholic.”

“Don’t blame yourself, please,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can’t bear that pleading note in his voice.

“Okay. We won’t. We shouldn’t blame ourselves. Because that’s only going to push us apart, and I need- I need us to come together, if we can-“

“Of course,” Enjolras assures, gently. “Of course. We’re going to get through this. Together. I love you so much. And I am going to show that care, every day, for the rest of our lives. I’m not asking you to believe that promise, R. I’m asking you to let me prove it. Tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day-“

“Yes,” Grantaire says, smiling for the first time all night. “Yes. Every day.”


End file.
